Demons Ma Fought in the 1970s

How the scale of some questions defies the possibility of answers. Reading Barbara Deming's essay On Anger with Sophia, talking about the difficulty of imagining peace clearly enough so you know what the real obstacles to it are. What Dad missed in the 1950s, demons Ma fought in the 1970s. On your knees, boy. Steeping tea. Chrisoula watching me from across the kitchen, listening to me knock Bonhoeffer, something in her eyes reminding me to remember what I have learned in this life about silence. How the cock channels desire in a way that confuses the ultimate union. Bronson Brook, properly understood as an extension of the Heraclitian project, was a door opening, a seam in the cosmos through which divine light flowed. Clearly Socrates has something to say about this. Oh Abhishiktananda, beautiful man, brighter than any sun or star I know, so carefully hefting that perfectly empty bowl, the Ganges is everywhere! Kisses at the beginning, kisses at the end. I remember the sleigh cresting the hill beyond an ice-covered pond, the harness on Kip's Belgians jangling in a way that meant the starry sky was in my skull and my skull was in the sacred heart of Jesus, and Jesus was with his Father in Heaven, and oh how happy I was all the way home and a little after. This is not amen. This is not even about time. Teach me the way to join you.